


The Big Issue

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [24]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Drug Use, Gen, Paternal Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26511619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: How it came to pass that Bill Wiggins was in place as the doss house watchman on the early morning when John Watson came looking for Isaac, his neighbour's son, and found Sherlock as well. Follows on from The Watching Brief, but is a stand-alone one-shot in its own right.
Series: Got My Eye on You [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/339652
Comments: 22
Kudos: 59





	The Big Issue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EilidhOg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EilidhOg/gifts).



> This story was commissioned for the RupertGravesBirthday auction 2020, in which money was raised for charity. The chosen charity was The Big Issue, something that I have respected and appreciated for decades because it helps the homeless. I am grateful to EilidhOg who asked for a "paternal Lestade story" in exchange for a contribution.

Standing on the windswept corner of Trafalgar Square, Lestrade uses the excuse of lighting a cigarette to make a quick check for pupil dilation. Satisfied that the young man he's talking to is not under the influence of drugs tonight, he asks, "No luck?"

Wiggins shakes his head. He looks as dispirited as Greg feels. They've both been out looking for Sherlock, who has done what Billy called "the usual midnight flit."

"Is she still coming back with him to Baker Street?"

This time Billy nods. "Yeah, and that's what I don't get. I mean, with a bint like that warming his bed, what's he doing?"

Greg has two answers to that question, neither of which he's going to tell his street informant. Wiggins' stories about the romance between Janine Hawkins and Sherlock have only heightened his concern. Something is seriously wrong, and Greg needs to get to the bottom of it.

It's one of those interminably cold, drizzly, and utterly miserable late May nights. Spring should have happened, but hasn't yet, and the forecast is dire. Not a night to be out on the streets after midnight, which unfortunately is exactly what Greg is doing. He's spent the past two hours checking out Sherlock's boltholes—the ones he knows about— without success.

"You saw him get on the train?"

Wiggins shrugs himself a bit deeper into his tatty anorak. "Yeah, followed the pair of them, home from the dance studio. A couple of hours later, he pours her into a taxi and does a runner down into Baker Street tube station. He got on the Bakerloo line eastbound, so I followed him. Got on in the next carriage, and then just as the doors shut, he jumps out and disappears. Bugger did it just to throw anyone off who might be following."

"Do you think he knows you are following him?"

"What do you think? The guy's a whizz at this. There are five bloody lines intersecting at Baker Street. He could have gone friggin anywhere."

He sounds as annoyed as Greg is at this turn of events. If Sherlock is avoiding Wiggins and suspicious of anyone following him, then it’s for one of two reasons: either he's looking to score drugs or he's found a bolthole where he can work on this hairbrained case of his, the one that links his brother to some sort of weird stuff in Georgia. Knowing Sherlock's tendency to go off the rails, it could be both at the same time.

If Mycroft had been in the country, Greg might have asked him to access the CCTV footage from London Transport, but he isn't, so he can't. The man's PA had been dismissive the last time he'd tried to get a message to her boss. Greg can't ask to see the footage himself, lest Sherlock end up on camera using drugs, ending his chance of working with him. He has to be so careful these days.

Wiggins' hands are shoved deep into his pockets and his attention is wandering.

"Oi! Stay on the case. Use your initiative."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. Try to think like he does. I'm going home to bed."

"Why can't I do the same?" There is a distinct whine of protest in his tone.

"I'm paying you to keep an eye on him at night, Wiggins. You screw up again and the deal is off."

oOoOoOoOo

When Greg's phone rings and rings, and keeps on ringing, he finally surfaces long enough to open one bleary eye and sees the digital numbers on his alarm clock: 04:48. Then he rolls over so he can't see the clock, and shoves a pillow over his head, so he can't hear the phone.

Then a policeman's instincts kick in to deliver an extra shot of adrenaline. Nobody calls a DI at this hour of the morning with good news. He rolls back over and fumbles for the phone, pulling it close enough to be able to read the number of the incoming call.

Wiggins.

He thumbs to accept call and drags it to his ear. As the connection opens, he mumbles, "What time do you call this?"

There's a laugh and then, "You pay me to be awake at sparrow's fart, so don't moan. Been out all night, 'aven't I, so you can get your beauty sleep."

"Better be important. Or did you just call to be annoying?"

"Got him." The tone is smug. "Know where he's been putting his head down instead of spending the night at Baker Street."

"Where?"

"Posh doss, between Herne Hill and West Dulwich. He just came out the front door, headin' south. Want me to follow him?"

"YES." Lestrade sits up and grabs the switch for the bedside table lamp. He will be able to think faster if he can convince himself it's time to wake up. "How did you find him?"

There's the sound of Wiggins walking, a bit of traffic noise in the background because unlike Greg, London never sleeps. Deliveries need to be done before the congestion charge kicks in at seven, so rush hour begins at four.

Wiggins chuckles, a bit smugly. "A little lateral thinking. Who hangs around train and tube stations? Big Issue sellers. They got phones, so I put it out last night that I'd pay anyone for info about him, used one of the snaps I took last week when he wasn't looking. A Big Issue seller who uses the shelter down near Dulwich North station ID'd the clothes, and told me he'd been seen in the area. Did some snooping around Dulwich and found the dealer. Took some convincing to get him to tell me it was Holmes. Had to spend a little —I'll need more dosh to cover expenses—but info got me to the doss house just in time to see him leave."

Greg's brain stutters to life. "No way am I paying a dealer anything."

"It was for _info_ , not drugs! Uh, he's at Herne Hill Station. Give me a mo." Wiggins cuts the line.

Greg has been to the loo and is back sitting on the edge of his bed waiting impatiently when the phone goes. He connects on the second ring. "Still on him?"

"Yeah, he's on the train. My guess he'll hop from train to tube at Balham. Once underground, I'll lose the signal. Give you a call when he gets to Baker Street."

"Don't. That is, don't call if he does end up back home. Only call if he goes AWOL again. I'm heading back to bed."

"Alright for some," Wiggins grumbles.

"Today's my day off. I'd really like to sleep in."

"When do I get a day off?"

"When you don't want the money."

"Yeah, well. Not tomorrow. I got bills to pay."

"So, stay on his trail until he's back at Baker Street. I'll call you in the evening."

oOoOoOoOo

Five hours later, Greg strides through the Herne Hill train station and stops on the threshold to take in the scene. The Victorian brick building is a remnant of the time when this area was not yet a suburb of inner London. It now wears the accessories of modern commuter life. To the left of the station exit, there is a rank of bicycle racks, all full. To the right, there is a mini-cab service office. The bus stop directly in front of the station is empty. It's after rush hour; the parade of shops across the road shows some signs of life, but only the newsagent and a coffee shop are open.

Down the road, Greg can see a couple of staff winding open an awning in front of a café, hoping to lure customers to sit outside to enjoy a bit of spring sunshine after yesterday's rain.

Greg knows who he's looking for — Wiggins isn't the first one to use Big Issue vendors as his eyes and ears. Is it ironic that the DI had first learned from Sherlock about how useful they could be?

His lie-in may have cost him the chance today, though because there's no sign of one, so he heads back into the station and goes up to the ticket window. He shows his warrant card, and the man sits up straighter in his chair. "What can I do for you? We've not reported any problems to the Transport Police."

"I'm looking for the Big Issue seller who has the pitch outside. Any ideas where they might be?"

"Not here. There'll be no more business here until this evening. By noon, he's usually on the high street, after change from the shoppers. As it's a bit early for that, he's probably taking a break. Try the Copper Kettle. Turn right at the intersection, two shops down, on the right. Cheapest breakfast in Herne Hill."

"Thanks."

Breakfast sounds like a good idea. When he'd woken up, all Greg had time for was a cup of tea.

When the little bell over the door to the Copper Kettle rings, he knows he is entering a time-warp. In the modern world, London has an endless succession of chain shops. It's only by the independents that you can place where in the city you are. Turkish barbers and kebab houses pepper the whole city, but the densest concentration is in the Edgeware Road area. On the other hand, if it's Bengali curry houses you're after, head to Brick Lane and the Tower Hamlets.

Here in Herne Hill, the Copper Kettle is the last hold-out of the old-fashioned caff. No French accented è of pretence here, no whoosh and bang of an Italian espresso machine selling latte or cappuccino. The place smells of fried eggs, sausages, and grease, the sort of breakfast that clogs your arteries just looking at the plate, with baked beans and black mushrooms, white toast on the side, washed down by coffee that has been brewing probably since last night.

The place is little more than a hole-in-the-wall with a kitchen attached, six formica tables and plastic chairs, most of which are occupied by what appear to be night workers or van drivers, hunkering down over the plates and keeping quiet.

His quarry is easy enough to spot. The bright orange tabard emblazoned with The Big Issue in white letters gives him away. Luckily, the seat opposite on the table for two is empty, so Greg strides over and slides into the chair.

The vendor keeps his head down; he's actually reading one of the magazines he's selling, while mopping up the remains of yellow egg yolk with his last morsel of toast.

"How many magazines you manage to sell this morning?" Greg asks, conversationally.

This gets him a look. The vendor is a white man somewhere north of forty, his beard is neatly enough trimmed, but he has the look of someone who's been on the streets for a while.

"What's it to you, copper?" The accent is northern, either Yorkshire or Lancashire; Greg's always had difficulties differentiating between them. The tone is hostile, suspicious.

"Who says I am one?" For the umpteenth time, Greg wonders what kind of signal he gives off that means people can identify his profession so easily.

The vendor leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, giving Greg a stare. "Maybe it's the fact that nobody wants to talk to me unless they have an agenda. And nowadays that means charity workers or the cops. Pardon me, but you don't look like a social worker or a do-gooder Christian. So, what do you want?"

Greg remembers a different voice, a baritone who once told him never to lie to someone on the streets; " _They can smell it on you, Lestrade. Misdirect, obfuscate, but don't lie."_

"I need information, and you are the sort who has it."

The look of suspicion hardens. "What sort of information?"

"Who runs the old Turkish Bath house these days?"

The vendor takes time to think about the request, finishing his cup of black coffee. A middle-aged waitress approaches, pad and pen in hand. Greg asks across the table, "Can I get you another cup of coffee? A pastry or something else?"

Unwilling to pass up a free meal, the vendor nods. "Don't mind if I do. Marcia, I'll have a bacon butty, brown sauce, and a coffee, both to go—on his tab."

Greg follows with "Coffee, bacon butty, but ketchup for me."

That earns him a scornful snort from the vendor, "Londoner."

While the waitress heads for the kitchen, Greg tries again. "According to the station manager you've been working this pitch for years. So, you'll have seen enough to be able to answer my question."

There's a world-weary sigh. "Maybe I have, maybe I haven't. Why do you want to know? Looking to bust someone?"

"No. Not at all."

"And you expect me to believe you."

"Yeah, I do. If I wanted to arrest someone, I'd walk across the street and do it. Just looking for information."

The vendor shrugs. "Owned by some Turks— overseas, Northern Cyprus, I think. But they're letting it rot until some property developer offers a price they can't refuse."

When the waitress returns with two black coffees in paper cups, she drops two plastic tops and wooden stirrers on the table. The vendor grabs the sugar dispenser and pours a liberal helping into the coffee, stirs like mad and then puts the top on as if preparing to leave.

Greg shakes his head. "I don't care who owns it; I'm after a name of who _runs_ it as a doss house, Robert."

The vendor looks up, startled by being called by his name. Greg points to the tabard's plastic pocket on the chest, "I'm assuming that's your name, and you haven't borrowed someone else's."

Robert shakes his head. "Not allowed to do that. They check up on us."

"I know, which is why I called you by your name. I also know that you've spend some of your own money to get that tabard and they won't sell it to you unless you've hit a regular weekly sales target. I'm familiar with how the charity works."

"You're a copper; just walk over and bang on the door. There's a watchman there, day and night. Or better yet, just arrest the lot, someone will sing."

"I'm not with the Drug Squad. And I don't want to shut it down."

"Then why do you want to know?"

"It's not police business. A friend of mine has started using it to crash and I want to get someone in there to keep an eye on him."

"Sounds unlikely. An informant, maybe, but a friend? Why would a copper have a junkie as a friend?"

"Because this is a relapse. He got himself clean, worked hard at it, got himself a flat, managed to do good things. I get the feeling you know something about that yourself."

"Maybe I do. Doesn't mean I'd rat on someone who's going through a bad patch."

Two brown paper bags are delivered to the table, along with the bill. Greg hands it back to the waitress with a twenty-pound note. "Take two quid as a tip, and give him the rest of the change."

"My information isn't for sale." He picks up the bag in one hand, the coffee in the other, and starts to push his chair back.

"Unwrap your sandwich and eat it while I do the same, and I will tell you why I want the information and why you'll do the right thing and let me help my friend."

Robert is still thinking about it when the waitress returns with ten quid and drops it on the table. He picks it up and slides it into his pocket, then opens the paper bag. "I like a good story while I eat; makes a change from reading the mag."

Greg unwraps his own sandwich and takes a big bite; the bread has soaked up the bacon grease, which combines with the ketchup into a glorious explosion of flavour. Once he's swallowed the first bite, he starts.

"How long have you been down in London? If it's six years, then you might remember a story that was kicking around for a while. Do you remember 2012, the Colindale Charnel House?"

Around a mouthful of sandwich, Robert muttered. "I was in London then; but not exactly paying a lot of attention to anything except what I needed to put up my arm."

"Colindale Hospital; built in 1900 between Hendon and Edgeware to handle London's long-term sick, taken into the NHS in 1948, shut down in 1996 and left to rot. Property developer bought the site in 2007 and started demolition in one corner of the 26 acre site in 2009. In 2011 surveyors looking at the another section of the old buildings found what they assumed was a charnel house, where the bones of dead patients not claimed for burials were buried. Trouble was, they also discovered body parts that still had flesh on them. Someone was using the site to store murder victims."

"Great topic for the breakfast table," grumbles Robert.

"I worked the case. Drove us nuts. Forensics took months to separate out the bones from those the hospital had dumped and newer bodies. I brought in a civilian, a consultant. We needed his help, because the weird thing was no one could identify any of the thirty-two victims that had been buried there in the past five years."

"Sounds gruesome."

"You have no idea."

oOoOoOoOo

**_-Six Years Ago-_ **

Greg can almost feel the suspicion, resentment and hostility; it's in the eyes of every one of the seven forensic specialists lined up in the corridor. From the solid phalanx of lab-coated scientists, Charles Berwick, the Chief Forensic Officer on the case, steps forward, arms crossed.

"Why?"

There is a multitude of accusations in that question, but Greg shrugs it off. "Because it's been months. Sorry, but you lot are no closer to finding out who these people are or why they were buried there than you were weeks ago. So, I'm bringing in a consultant to help."

"A civilian." Berwick's lip curls, as his eyes rake over the young man standing beside Greg.

"Yes." Greg scans the faces of the techs behind Berwick. "So, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock is avoiding eye contact, and fidgeting slightly beside him. "Can we just get on with it? Where are the bodies?"

Berwick isn't giving in so easily. "Does he know the first thing about chain of evidence? About PACE?"

Greg steps in before Sherlock can be his usual scathing self; "Sherlock has helped my team crack more cold cases than any other MIT on the force. I expect your full cooperation."

The Met's Forensic Investigation Specialist Crime unit is a unit of the Specialist Crime Directorate, but Greg knows from bitter experience that the FSCI behave as if they are a law unto themselves. This crime had needed something bigger than their usual lab space, so they'd taken a lease on two units in a light industrial park in Greenwich. Berwick is still shaking his head as he leads Greg and Sherlock through the doors into the high-ceilinged open space.

The brightly-lit sight almost makes the DI stop in his tracks. He's never been confronted with so many murder victims in one place. There are six rows of trolleys, five trolleys in each row. If this is the work of the same person, the criminal will vault onto the upper echelons of serial killerdom. On each trolley is a pallet, with individual bones laid out in on a paper sheet imprinted with a human skeleton, and a manila folder, presumably with data relating to that victim. On the back wall is a long table with a half dozen plastic boxes, to the side are a whole series of work stations with computers, microscopes and other equipment.

As the other techs file into the room behind him, Berwick walks further into the room and then turns to look back at Greg. "This has taken months of hard work by technical specialists, trained in forensics; every off-duty Crime Scene AFP and CSM has been through here at some point or another to help out. Grad students in Forensic archaeology from all over the country have been drafted in, too. And you think this fellow of yours is going to make a break through where we haven't?"

Sherlock ignores the question, taking in the scene. After a moment, he asks quietly "Tell me what you think you know about these remains."

"The charnel house at Colindale had bone layers going back for a century. It took weeks to extract them and to identify the layer that had been laid down after the hospital closed. We know that the bodies here were dismembered before they were thrown into the bone pit. One way we determined where the dividing line was between the bones from the hospital from the murder victims was because the hospital used quicklime to control the smell, but it also slows decomposition. The murderers didn’t care, so no quick lime. Particulate material, organic material, bone density sampling, carbon dating, decomp analyses —we threw the works at it, and identified when unauthorised use started—ten years after the hospital closed, so about three years ago. We can't be more precise about the lower bone layers because we don't know exactly when the hospital used it the last time. When they knew they were closing, they might well have stopped, even if the final date was months or even a year or more ahead.

Beside Greg, Sherlock stirs. "Where are the remains that had flesh attached?"

Berwick hooks his thumb over his shoulder. "Next unit over; refrigerated."

"I’ll see them after this."

Berwick walks over to the nearest trolley, beckoning Greg and Sherlock over. "The problem of identifying the victims was complicated by the bones, which were in pieces and scattered, and reconstructing them as individuals, from which issues like ethnic origin, sex and age can be extrapolated. Nuclear DNA from the bones were at different states of degradation, isolated by using three different methods, the classical, organic phenol chloroform extraction, extraction from crystal aggregates and by total demineralisation." He pauses and glances at Sherlock, who is leaning over the trolley and using his pocket magnifier to examine a rib. With a sneering tone, Berwick continues, "I don't suppose that means anything to you, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock straightens up. "It means that you wasted police time and resources on two techniques that weren't helpful. Demineralisation means the DNA isn't pure, so poor to useless when it comes to identifying the remains. Given the bodies were dismembered and lime not applied as opposed to burial, phenol chloroform extraction would yield little additional information above that obtained by crystal aggregates."

Berwick's eyebrows rise, and Greg can't resist adding, "He's a graduate chemist, with an unhealthy interest in human remains."

Sherlock ignores this as he moves to the second trolley. After a brief examination, he frowns and turns back to Berwick. "How have you organised the thirty?"

"By completeness of the skeletal remains. This row has the most intact, and therefore the greater chance of providing a possible identity."

Sherlock snorts. "First step then—re-position the bodies in length of time since death order. Your analyses of levels of decomposition of the bone should make that possible, even if it is only an estimate."

"What's the point of that?"

"Just do it." Sherlock looks over Berwick's shoulder. "Any of you lot able to point out which is the oldest?"

A ginger-haired young man steps forward. "First row, third body."

"Pull that one out here, and start moving them into order," Sherlock commands.

When none of the techs moves, Greg scowls at Berwick. "Get to it." The CFO shrugs, and waves at the crew, "Go on. Print off the bone decomp age list and re-order. We can always put them back in the right order when this idiot is done."

As the six other techs start moving the trolleys Sherlock heads over to the trolley with the oldest bones, "What else can you tell me about the remains as a whole? Gender, age?"

Berwick narrows his eyes. Through lips thin with annoyance, he says "Of the thirty-two individuals, twenty-eight are males, half of whom are white Caucasians, the others are ethnic minorities." He breaks off for a moment to call out, "Stephanie, go get the breakdown of ethnic origin mapped by trolley number." Then he continues, "Estimated ages vary from sixteen to sixty, with the majority being in their late forties Every table has a file with this data in it for that victim."

"As you said you have been unable to identify them from DNA, I am going to assume that there were no prosthetics, dental implants, or other serial numbers capable of being traced."

"No, none."

"No fibres, no synthetic material?"

"No, none. As I said, the pit eliminated the sort of trace that would have helped us in a normal crime scene. Even the few bits that still had flesh were clean of any fibres or particulates. We've got nothing apart from general decomposition of the bone to give us an estimated time of death. The flesh of the two individuals next door suggests their time of death between three to six weeks. There is no evidence of trauma on any of the bones. No cause of death can be attributed to any of the victims."

"You've checked the victims against missing persons reports for similarities, comparing familial DNA?"

A slightly less grudging "Yes" emerges from Beriwick. "That took quite a while, as you can imagine. No match with anything on record at any force in the UK. These people are simply not in the system, anywhere."

" _Interesting._ "

Greg follows the CFO over to where Sherlock is now bent over the bones of the first victim. He is moving around the trolley at great speed, nearly a macabre dance of whirling motion, zooming in on different bones and then moving on in his examination, coming at the end to rest his scrutiny on the skull. After a moment or two of close scrutiny, he stands up, taking in the rest of the trolleys in the row.

Then Sherlock's off, walking steadily down the next row, eyes flitting from trolley to trolley. He rounds the end of the row and moves to the next, barely pausing until he's paced the entire grid. Behind him, Berwick is following, his annoyance evident in the tightness of his shoulder muscles and the occasional look of incredulity that he throws in Greg's general direction.

Sherlock walks over to the long table where the other forensic officers have congregated and peers into one of the plastic boxes. He reaches in and pulls out what Greg thinks might be a rib bone. Sherlock points it at the nearest white-coated person and barks, "What are these?"

"Unattributed; DNA doesn't match any of the individuals here, but all of the bones are old enough to be from the days when the hospital was open."

Sherlock whirls around to stare at Berwick. "So, the layers were mixed up? How deep?"

The ginger-haired tech answers, "Only about a third of a meter of mix. The pit is over five meters deep; all of the bodies that are post-1997 were in the top two meters. There was a sort of 'grey area' where the old bones and the new intermixed. It's common in mass graves. I saw it a lot of it in Burundi, given the waves of massacres."

Sherlock is looking at the rib again, at the thicker end of it. Greg is almost relieved to see a tiny smile beginning to form on Sherlock's lips, that little quirk that tells him that a deduction has just been made.

"Okay, _gimme._ What have you seen?"

"Not seen, Lestrade, _observed._ Something that none of these scientists seem to have spotted."

Berwick's sniff is angry. "What?!"

Sherlock drops the bone back in the box and starts to pace, fingers steepled under his chin. He takes four steps to the right, a sharp turn and four steps to the left. Berwick's annoyance seems to ratchet up another notch with every pace.

"What's this performance?" he asks Greg.

"He's thinking. Leave him be."

A minute or two pass and then Sherlock stops and smiles again, this time more broadly. "The trouble with forensic people is that you fail to see what _isn't_ there. Let's start with the fact that you haven't bothered to aggregate the remains of any individual body from pre-1997. If you had, then you would have found far more intact combinations, if that box is anything to go by. And complete skeletal reconstructions would have the pieces that are evidently missing on the victims." He gestures at the trolleys.

"Each of the bodies in the upper layer has been totally disaggregated; every bone was medically, no, _surgically_ separated before being put into the pit. The bones from the time when the hospital used it as a pit aren't like that. They've just decomposed the way you would expect.."

The CFO is thinking it through. "Why would a murderer do that? What's the point?"

" _Finally_ , you are asking the right questions. What is the one bone missing from every individual in here?"

Berwick looks around the room at the tables, provoking an eye roll from Sherlock. "I'll put your out of your misery; it's the sternum. and there won't be any on the two bodies you have in the fridge next door."

"How can you possibly know that?" Barwick demands.

"For the same reason I noticed that every one of these bodies' ribs shows evidence of being surgically removed from the missing sternum, the sort of thing that would be done if you were intent on hiding the fact that every one of these victims has had a sternotomy."

"Oh." Berwick's surprise is evident.

Sherlock isn't finished. "Let's add to that the fact that up to victim six, the pelvic iliac crest bone shows evidence of needle puncture wounds, for bone marrow harvesting."

"Now you're just making it up. You haven't examined the pelvic bones of victims."

"I don't need to. It's a logical deduction based on the time line."

Berwick is utterly confused, and looks at Greg. "What is he talking about?"

Greg is rather enjoying watching the CFO getting befuddled, but decides he's had enough fun for the afternoon. "Sherlock, just explain it, will you? Words of one syllable for the ordinary mortals out here."

A rather histrionic sigh is followed by a theatrical roll of his eyes. "Very well. The operative word here is _harvested._ Colindale may have once been a charnel house attached to a hospital, but now it's a body chop shop. Victims have been taken and various bits of them harvested for onward sale. Did you know that the average black-market price for a kidney from a live donor is over £30,000? Let's add in heart, lungs, liver, spleen, pancreas, even the small intestines. Those are after death, but even before that tissues can be harvested from live patients: corneas, skin, veins, tendons, ligaments and bones. Shall we throw in blood? Yes, why don't we? White cells, plasma, stem cells, bone marrow. Each one commands a price in the market for under-the-counter, off the official radar treatments. Add it all up and we're talking about a quarter of a million pounds per body." He glances around the room. "That's eight million pounds, in a little over two years."

Stunned silence falls in the room.

Berwick is processing the revelation when he stops, confused. "Wait… what did you mean about the pelvic bones? Why is that relevant?"

"it's confirmation of the timeline. Bone marrow harvesting used to be done by needle aspiration into the iliac crest. Then people realised that the drugs developed in the HIV-aids era could be used to drive stem cells out of the bone marrow into the bloodstream where it could be easily harvested. It's now used as a matter of routine for cancer patients, transplants, all sorts of disease treatments these days. Huge demand. Always valuable."

Pale and clearly shocked, Berwick turns to Greg. "That means the killer has to be medically trained."

" _Killers_." Sherlock emphasises the plural. "To keep a patient alive for the minimum of five days needed for the drugs to take effect for bone marrow harvesting, and then to recover so that soft tissues could be taken in prime condition means keeping a victim under sedation for a fortnight, even before the final harvest of organs. That means we are looking for not an individual but a group. A minimum of five or six: a general surgeon with experience in transplants, an anaesthetist, a nurse for the operations, another one to keep an eye on the victim 24/7 when they are recovering, and then a salesman."

Greg is confused about the last one. "What kind of salesman?"

"Someone who knows what the going rate is for all these spare parts. Someone with the contacts into the black market, the private hospitals and clinics, not just here in the UK but anywhere within reach of a courier moving vital organs. The gang may well have their own delivery network, too, or just piggyback onto legitimate services."

Sherlock is watching them as if waiting for another question, but Greg is struggling to take it all in. "Like Burke and Hare, they're taking live patients instead of robbing graves."

Sherlock gives a wan smile. "Not a bad analogy, although medical science has moved on since then. To do this properly, they'll need the proper equipment. That's why the earliest victims, when they were first starting out, were harvested at time of death, which was clearly very soon after their capture. Once they'd built up some capital, they could invest in the more sophisticated harvesting of skin, blood products, soft tissues, etc, keeping the patient alive for longer while increasing the profits per unit."

"God, that is gruesome."

Sherlock looks expectantly at him again, but Greg doesn't know what to say.

"Oh, for God's sake! Are you all so dim that you can't see the obvious question?" Sherlock draws a breath and expels it loudly. "WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? Who can disappear without a trace? Without someone filing a missing person report? Someone, anyone contacting the police and starting a murder enquiry?"

Berwick and Greg exchange an awkward glance, but it's Greg who asks. "Okay, who?"

"Homeless people! They've already dropped off the grid. Their families have given up on them long ago. Other homeless people won't go to the police to report anything; they'll just assume the missing person has moved on, or worse. None of them would willingly go to a morgue to identify a body, someone who's the victim of a drug overdose, suicide or foul play. So, ideal targets."

"That's…awful."

Sherlock nods. "It is. This gang is targeting some of the most vulnerable people in the country. No signs of trauma, Doctor Berwick? That's because most if not all of them would have been drugged and then taken away to wherever the chop shop did the deed. The signs are there; look for the missing bones. Examine the remains that still have flesh on them. Do they show signs of missing tissue? For all we know the group has become sophisticated enough to kill to order. Need a new liver? Fine, we'll deliver one, guaranteed to be removed from a healthy donor, only hours ago."

"If they're homeless, then a lot will be drug users, alcoholics. No medical professional would put them on a donor list." Berwick is resisting Sherlock's explanation.

A swirl of coat, and Sherlock leans in to sneer. "Drugs can be cleaned from blood within twenty-four hours. Opiod detox can be instantaneous with naloxone. Procedures don’t even need anaesthesia, if the person is brain dead. Medically speaking, there isn't much difference in taking all the time you need to heal a damaged liver before removal, if you don't care about the patient surviving. Brain dead pregnant women can be kept alive by machines for months, to allow a baby to be born, so why not keep someone on a machine until a donor match can be made? They may well have been willing to keep a victim alive for weeks until a suitable buyer could be found."

Listening to this litany, Greg feels a growing sense of dismay. "Where on earth do we even begin looking for the criminals? As soon as it went on the news months ago, they'd not go back to Colindale. They could be anywhere and their next victim could already be in their clutches. How are we going to find them before it's too late?" 

oOoOoOoOo

"Let's take a break." Robert wipes his fingers with a paper napkin, and raises a hand to call Marcia over to the table. "Another coffee, I think." He looks over at Greg, who has only managed half his bacon sandwich, as he recounted his tale. "And give this a bit of microwave to heat it up, while you've at it."

The waitress collects the cups and the sandwich, shaking her head at his order. "You make sure you use the loo before you leave here; all this coffee…"

The vendor laughs. "You do look after me."

Once she's out of ear-shot, he leans forward and says rather conspiratorially, "I think she fancies me a bit. Used to give me a couple of freebies when I couldn't afford to pay. And they let me use the toilet here when I'm out selling the magazines. The only public loos are at the far end of town in the municipal carpark."

Greg nods. "Good to have friends."

"Well, not really _friends_ …Nobody really looks at a homeless person and makes friends. Not many of them stick around, and few want other people sticking their noses into their business."

"You've stuck around here; how long's it been?"

Robert shrugs, "Four years."

Greg gives a chuckle. "That's better than a lot of people; even this far out, Londoners are always on the move, upwards, downwards and sideways. The grass is always greener somewhere else."

Marcia is back, puts the two coffees down; this time in mugs, and the plate with Greg's half eaten sandwich, steam rising from it.

"While I eat, tell me your story. How'd you end up here in Herne Hill?"

"Better eat fast then, it's a short story," he scoffs.

As Greg bites into the resurrected sandwich, the vendor takes a swig of coffee and then leans back. "I could say it's the sort of thing that happens all the time. Man screws up, ends up trying to make things right but ends up making things worse, until he hits rock bottom."

With his mouth half-full, Greg mumbles "You're on the mend now; that's what Big Issue is all about."

Robert nods. "Trying, anyway. Look, my life story isn't unusual. I was a kid in care up north, joined the army as soon as I was legally allowed, went overseas, had a whale of a time on two tours of duty, then ended up meeting a girl, getting married, having two kiddies, bang, bang, one after another, went on the third tour and then shit happened. I got injured in a training exercise when we were stationed in Germany." He pulls his chair out a bit from the table, enough to extend his right leg so he could pull up his trouser leg. Greg sees the prosthesis and knows that the accident that took it would have taken his job in the army as well.

"I was bitter and twisted about it; not something heroic. The battlefield casualty at least has his pride; he earned his wound. My foot was the victim of a squaddie with a hangover so bad that he couldn't drive the personnel carrier without crashing it. Nobody's fault, but I'm the one who lost a career."

Robert takes another gulp of hot coffee, and once his tongue has recovered from the scalding liquid, he continues, "Got a crap job back in Preston fixing cars, got laid off when the business went under. Lost our house because I couldn't make the mortgage payments. Made it worse by drinking and gambling. Wife ups and leaves me, taking the kiddies with her and moves back into her parents' house. Next thing I know, I'm divorced, jobless, homeless and an addict."

Greg is nearly done with the sandwich, as Robert continues. "I drifted south in the hope of finding some sort of job. Ended up sleeping rough. Any money I made went into my arm, not into making a fresh start."

"Things changed when I got talking to a guy at the soup kitchen at the Balham Salvation Army. He'd started selling the Big Issue, told me how it worked and how it was giving him a chance to break the down spiral. It was hard at first. I mean, vendors have to make eye contact, connect with people, when we know that the first thing people see is _homeless guy_. Some people shout abuse, ' _Get a job, junkie.'_ And I tell 'em that I'm doing this as a job, to stop being what they accused me of being. Being brave enough to do that, day after day? Took more guts than I knew I had."

Greg washes the last bite down with a mouthful of coffee, then says, "You did it."

"Yeah, and I make enough now to just about get by. The Big Issue people help out with other stuff; advice on how to get on the housing list, get the right benefits. I'm in a safe hostel now, saving for a deposit on a flat rent. I don't have to re-invent the wheel, because other vendors share ideas on how to sell better. It works. I've got my regulars, established customers who buy every week now. I know I can count on them. And I supplement the income with some busking now."

"Yeah? What instrument do you play?"

"Clarinet. I learned at school, and managed to get an old one in a jumble sale at the Methodist Church up on Red Post Hill. Got a good ear, so I can catch tunes on the radio and have a go at them myself. The young people will drop a coin in the bag more than they'll buy a mag. And that reminds me, I need to get going; the mums are about doing their morning shopping, and I can't afford to miss the sales."

Greg smiles. "If I volunteered here to buy five mags off you now, will you stay to hear the rest of the story?"

An arched eyebrow is followed by a sniff. The vendor takes one magazine out of his pouch and slides it across the table. "I'll sell you one for twelve pounds fifty, and keep the other four to sell later. I'm not a fool, you know."

Greg laughs and reaches for his wallet, as he explains, "The civilian solved it for us. Took a while, but once he explained that the bodies were all of homeless people, we were kind of stumped. By definition, homeless people are lost from the system; if they vanished, no one noticed."

"Still true today."

Greg nods. "I know. He called them _off the radar_ , and therefore more vulnerable than anyone to being taken like this, because no one would give a damn."

Robert takes a deep breath and nods his head. "Worth a hell of a lot more dead than alive."

"Exactly."

"How did you catch the killer?"

"We didn't. _He_ did. While we wasted more police time investigating private clinics, thinking that they must be the ones doing the harvesting, he went off on his own investigation. None of the homeless would work with the police, so the civilian went undercover. Well, I say that, but he had been on the streets himself, so he knew how it worked. He set up what he called _the homeless network_ , informal ways of keeping tabs on everyone, so if anyone went missing, steps could be taken. It was big. He had a lot of time for Big Issue sellers—said they were the most observant of the lot."

"Before my days with Big Issue. I didn't hear about it, but I was on the streets back then."

"You were in good company. There were over six thousand rough sleepers in London back then. You would have been one that someone else was keeping an eye on. It was a cascade structure with twenty people recruited by this guy, each of whom dealt with another twenty and so on. It was like a giant funnel of information. but few of them ever knew who else was involved, only that they knew that the information wouldn't be abused because they trusted the person who was the collector of all the data. It worked because he paid for his twenty contacts, enough so they could pay the next layer down and so on. He said 'where the money goes, information flows'. Our guys wouldn't authorise it, but he found a way to make it work."

Robert's eyebrows rise up his forehead. "How could he afford it?"

"That's too long story. Let's just say that when he was clean, he got access to family money, and was willing to spend it to try to stop these bastards."

"That's…generous. It worked?"

"Yeah, but it was a close-run thing. He passed on news about people going missing to us, but while we were investigating to see if any of them might be a victim of this gang, he decided to go poke around the Colindale estate. It was a big site; twenty-six acres in all only five of which had been developed and a further six demolished, before the charnel house was found. That stopped everything. He spent days and nights up there, ferreting down every hole, every ruined building.

"To make a long story short, he eventually found the ward. It was underground, only accessible via a tunnel that used to run between two buildings. There was a generator down there. They had heat and light, one room set up as a sterile operating theatre with all the kit, another a two-bed ward with monitors and stuff that would make an NHS ward feel poverty stricken. There were two patients in there, and a nurse.

"He called us for back-up but then went back down there, because one of the patients was being operated on, so he caused an almighty ruckus, got beat up and handcuffed to the vacant bed, as they tried to finish killing off their victim on the table. He would have been next, if we hadn't have found them. Both the one on the operating table and the two guys in the ward survived. The gang ended up in prison, and that's where they still are, six years later. Three of the six are in there without possibility of parole."

"Justice, that's good."

Greg nods. "The homeless of London slept a bit easier that night and for every night since. God knows how many lives they would have taken if it hadn't been for my consultant." He's reached the moment when he has to put his cards on the table. "The man who was willing to risk his life to save homeless people is my friend, the one whose been using the Turkish Baths at night. I need to know who runs the place so I can go have a word, put one of my informants in there to keep an eye on him."

"Using again? What happened?"

"He's had a shite couple of years and fell off the wagon about two months ago. I want to see him get through it, so he can get back to doing what he does when he's clean. So, are you going to help me?"

"You're trying to make me feel guilty; how do I know that if I give you a name, it won't come back on me?"

"Of course it won't."

Robert purses his lips, making up his mind, so Greg leaves him the time to do it. He doesn't want to use a drug bust to get Sherlock into rehab; without Mycroft around, he'll just be told to piss off and mind his own business. Charging in there won't get Sherlock off the drugs; and knowing him as Greg does, he'll have worked out an escape route in any case, so they couldn't even be sure of taking him in. Whatever happens, the full-frontal assault would just drive him back to using one of his own bolt holes where no one will be able to keep an eye on him.

As the silence drags on, Greg drains the last of his coffee, and tries to think of a Plan B.

Robert leans forward and says very, very quietly. "If you want to protect your friend, you need to stay away from the people who run the house, the 67 Gang working out of the New Park Road estate over Brixton Hill way. Those Tulse boys are mean and won't do anything but brickwall you; a plainclothes officer like you just sniffing around might lead them to taking a knife to your friend just for the hell of it. They're not afraid of anyone. They run the county lines through here, and got eyes on all the stations. Watch out for some faces on CCTV; they're so brazen they put themselves on video with that awful drill music. If your boy's buying down here he'll be on their radar already. And that's why you won't get one of your people in there as a user to babysit your friend. It's a closed house, got to be vetted. The 67 will know your guy and have approved him being there; a stranger won't be accepted."

The idea that Sherlock is somehow known to this gang, and accepted as a customer disturbs Lestrade more than he's going to admit, but the look on his face must be telling Robert enough, because he shakes his head and reaches for the Big Issue magazine he'd pushed in Greg's direction. Opening up the back page, which has an ad with a lot of white space on it, he takes a marker pen from his tabard and starts writing what looks to be a mobile number. "Your best bet is to swap out the house lookout; his name is Ernesto and his absence can be bought for a couple of nights. Nothing more or his minders will notice and take it out of his hide. He's got a girl friend over on Hawarden Grove, who's been bitching about him being out all night instead of keeping her company. The right incentive will work, but don't do it yourself. You smell like a cop and you'll get nowhere."

Greg nods. "Okay. That's incredibly helpful."

"I've got Ernesto's number because his mum is scared witless about what her son is getting up to with this gang. She's asked me to keep an eye on him; gave me his number so if I spot anything heavy going down, I can tip him off to scarper before the cops get into arrest him. He's not a user yet, but she's worried sick about him."

Again, Greg nods.

"If I were you, I'd get your boy out of there. Not a safe place. They use the house to recruit, letting local boys crash, get them addicted then drag them into the business, running cocaine out to towns in Kent. Personally, I'd like the see the place shut down, but all that would do is move the gang to take over some other place, even cuckooing if pushed to it."

Greg's confusion must have shown, because Robert snorts. "Damn right you aren't in the Drug Squad. Cuckooing means taking over a vulnerable person's house. Literally, they spot a single mum or an old lady living on her own, pay them to be able to use the premises for their business. They move their people in, sometimes addicting the adult and any kids, and then use the place either as a storage place and distribution centre for their drugs or as a doss house for their customers. Because they are hiding behind a legit resident, the police and social workers don't always spot it."

"But you do."

Robert shifts a little uncomfortably on the chair. "Yeah, well, so what if I do?"

Greg takes a card out of his wallet. "When you do, then text me. I'll take care of it, with no blow-back on you."

Robert nods and takes the card. He collects his pouch of magazines and gets up. "Don't approach me again, copper. This is my manor and I have to live here."

Greg calls Marcia over and pays the bill.

By the time he's walked back to the Herne Hill station, he's on the phone to Wiggins, giving him the details about Ernesto and telling him what he has to do tonight.

"What if this geezer won't play?"

"Tell him you'll rat on him to his mother and girlfriend. It's only for a couple of nights. Show him enough money and he'll take it, but it's really the women he's scared of."

Wiggins gives a knowing laugh. "Yeah, well what am I going to tell him is the reason why I want to take his place? He might think I'm one of the Zone 2 boys from Peckham trying to muscle in."

"Tell him the truth. You're a nobody in south London, no risk to anyone involved in the turf wars going on. You're just being paid by me to keep an eye on someone using the house. Keep him safe, Bill. Don't let him go off the rails too far."

"What if he does?"

"I'm going to grab a naloxone kit from the office. Meet me at five tonight on the Victoria Embankment, near the Boudicca statue. I'll hand it over. If Sherlock overdoes it, use the kit and then call John Watson on the number I'm about to text you. He lives only a half mile away from the Turkish Bathhouse. And then call me. Got that?"

"Yeah. Just what I need, another couple of bloody nights of babysitting, of being cold and sober." 

The whine in Billy's voice grates on Greg's nerves. "You're being paid, remember? Cheer up; at least you'll have a roof over your head."

**Author's Note:**

> The gangs of London are a real problem, and Lestrade is right to be worried about Sherlock, and so is Isaac's mum, who will soon be sending John Watson to rescue her boy, who is being targeted, addicted and then converted into a gang member to do County Line runs. The area where Sherlock is dossing has the second highest level of knife crime in London; last year there were 80 stabbings and far too high a level of shootings, despite the total ban on hand guns in the UK.
> 
> If this moves you, I would encourage you to buy a Big Issue magazine; you will be helping someone help themselves.


End file.
